


Five Days in July

by Verlaine



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M, post-SR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verlaine/pseuds/Verlaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots from Starsky's first few weeks home after the shooting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Days in July

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Me and Thee Secret Santa exchange, for Kaye Austen Michaels.

On the first day after I brought Starsky home from the hospital, Huggy showed up with a bottle of pear brandy.

"Pear brandy?" Starsky said in the tone of voice he might have used for, say, centipede ice cream.

He'd insisted on getting up, and was sitting on the couch, propped up with a couple of pillows, and wrapped in my afghan. It was a nice, warm summer day, and I was wearing shorts myself, but Starsk seemed to have picked up a permanent chill. Maybe it was because of all the weight he'd lost. I'd bundled him up in a sweatshirt and the heavy wool socks I only wore when I went back home, but his hands still felt like ice. I made a mental note to get a hot water bottle, or maybe one of those little electric heating pads. He didn't have enough strength left to waste any of it shivering.

"Trust me on this, oh miracle man." Huggy handed him the fat little green bottle. An engraved pattern of fruit and leaves was woven around the neck, so lifelike it seemed to have grown there, rather than being cast in some factory. "Smooth, mellow, with the most exquisite flavor of fresh ripe pears. Your taste buds will thank you for the treat, especially after all the gruel and jello you've been subjecting your stomach to for the past while."

"No alcohol with the meds," I broke in on Huggy's rhapsodizing. "Sorry, buddy," I added as Starsky gave me a pout.

"Not that I could drink anyway," Starsk agreed glumly. "Between all the meds and the stomach damage, I don't think booze is on the menu for me this year."

"Booze?" Huggy's eyebrows rose. "Booze? I'll have you know that this is a _liqueur_. Guaranteed to assist the digestion and tempt the palate of even the most discriminating connoisseur." With a grin he dropped the snooty maitre d' accent, and went back to H. Bear, bartender. "Seriously, I'm not sayin' Starsky should guzzle down a sixpack of an evening, or anything like that. But a little bit of this instead of a pain pill might do his heart more good than anything else. Give him something sweet and pleasant to look forward to."

There'd been damn little sweet and pleasant in Starsky's life since May 15.

Huggy leaned over and took the bottle back, caressing it with long fingers before setting it down on the coffee table.

"No, my friends, this is no mere _booze_. This is the liqueur of love."

"Got news for you, Hug. You're a little thin to pass for Barry White."

Huggy cheerily gave me the finger, and then settled his cap as he got to his feet.

"Scoff as you will, blondie. The louder you bawl, the faster you'll fall."

With a last wave he headed out the door.

Starsky looked up at me, then at the bottle.

"Liqueur of love?" he shrugged. "Guess we can keep it for a cold day in hell."

******

On the sixth day after I brought Starsky home from the hospital, Sweet Alice came by with a brown paper bag.

"Hi, Handsome Hutch," she said when I opened the door. "How's Starsky doing?"

"He's up and around this morning," I said, kissing her cheek. "C'mon in."

Alice had moved up in the world a little in the past few years. She had her own little place in a nice condo, and a select list of 'gentleman callers'; she wasn't out of the life, but at least she'd made it off the street. Not exactly a victory, but maybe as close as anybody could get these days.

Starsky was sitting at the kitchen table, carefully sipping a mug of peppermint tea. We'd found out early on that coffee, even with lots of milk, gave him vicious heartburn, and I personally had my doubts about adding caffeine into the mix of drugs in his system. He'd vetoed cocoa, chamomile and rose hip, but seemed to be willing to at least try out the peppermint. Probably because it reminded him of candy.

"Hi, honey, how are you?" Starsky got a kiss on thecheek, and a little hair ruffle. "You're looking a lot better since I last saw you."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Starsky said. "Nice to see a pretty girl, instead of all those nurses in uniforms, with big sharp pointy accessories."

I couldn't hold back a snort. Starsky had had every nurse in the place wrapped around his little finger by the time he'd been conscious for three days.

"Brought you a little something. Close your eyes." Alice gave him a dimply smile, and held out the paper bag.

"A surprise?" Starsky grinned like a kid. "A nice big loaded burrito from Rosalita's? Tickets for the Lakers? Homemade cookies?"

"Cookies? Sorry, honey, the only thing I can really cook is my mama's tuna casserole, and even that's stretching it. I figured you'd be getting plenty of food from all the ladies you know, so I brought this."

Starsky reached into the bag and pulled out a large brown and yellow tube.

"Mama Yeroba's Balm Treatment? Sorry, Alice, don't get the joke."

"It's cocoa butter," she explained. "It's for the scars." Starsky's face darkened, and his eyes dropped. "Aw, don't look like that, honey. I saw you in intensive care; there's nothing to be ashamed of. This cream is just what you need. It'll soften up the skin, so it won't feel like it's pulling so bad when you move. And it'll help to fade them quicker too."

"Cocoa butter?" Starsky unscrewed the top and gave a doubtful sniff. "It doesn't smell like chocolate."

"Cocoa _butter_ , honey. They take all the good chocolate stuff out first. Shame isn't it? Imagine if you could get it licked off." She gave me a coy little look, and I braced myself. In the past few years, Sweet Alice seemed to have gotten over her crush on me, and I really hoped it wouldn't reappear. She deserved better than a man whose heart was already taken.

Not the time for those thoughts.

"Can I get you some tea?" I asked.

"Yeah, have a cup." Starsky said with a grimace. "It's sort of like drinking a weak candy cane."

Alice dimpled again.

"How can I resist a drink with a pair of handsome gentlemen like you?" She settled herself beside Starsky.

Some women just have a knack with men, and Alice was one of them. For Starsky, she was feminine, flirty, concerned but not hovering, willing to listen but not invasive of his privacy, a little naughty but always ladylike. She had the kind of personality that could be sympathetic without making him feel that he had to be tough and stoic. A true geisha, I thought, and smiled a little, content to have her focus on him so I could sit back and watch them both.

Watch Starsky, really. Watch his eyes light up when she teased him a little, watch that slightly shy smile that softened his face as she got him talking about his mom. I'd spent so much time in the hospital counting every breath, afraid to close my eyes in case he just — stopped. Watching him be even close to his normal self with Alice was enough to make me abjectly grateful to her.

The feminine attention was just what Starsky needed, but even the effort of being gallant and sociable was enough to wear him down. The second time he yawned, Alice gracefully got up, and made her excuses.

I walked her over to the door.

"Thanks for coming by, Alice. You've done him a lot of good," I said quietly enough that Starsky couldn't hear. "He needs people around who don't treat him like an invalid or a medical curiosity."

"Any time, honey. He's such a sweetheart, and I can tell he's bein' real brave. Don't you worry yourself too much, now. He's gonna be just fine." She stopped. "Oh, shoot, I almost forgot. I've got something for you, too, handsome."

She pulled a little jar out of her purse and pressed it into my hand.

"Now, you probably don't need me tellin' you this, but you'll need to take real good care with Starsky for a while. Every move is gonna be hurting him, and with all those pills he's on, his, you know, _digestion_ , isn't going to be so hot. He probably won't complain, so you gotta watch him real close when you're in bed. Don't let him overdo it."

"Bed?" Only word of that lecture had really sunk in.

"That's what this is for." She tapped the jar. "It's homemade, just like the cocoa butter. Lots better than that K-Y stuff."

What she was saying had finally sunk in. I could feel my face burning, and only part of it was embarrassment. How had Alice figured out how I felt about Starsky?

"Look, Alice, we don't . . . I mean Starsky and I . . . it isn't . . ."

"Oh, my Lord! You mean you're the bottom guy? You've gotta be even more careful then, honey. Starsky just isn't up to anything strenuous yet. You're going to have to do all the work, and make sure he doesn't pull anything." She tapped the jar again. "And make sure to use plenty of this."

I'd lost all capacity for speech about halfway through her little lecture. Images of Starsky, in bed, with me, were scrambling my thought process so badly I couldn't even try to sputter some kind of denial. I stood dazed as Alice gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and headed out the door.

When I finally pulled it together, I took the jar into the bathroom and dropped it in the trash.

Two minutes later, I went back in, fished it out, and stuck it in my duffle bag.

That night, when I checked on Starsky as he was going to bed, I found him sitting on the side of the bed, holding the brown and yellow tube and looking at it with a thoughtful frown.

"Think it'll help any?" he said, sounding wistful.

My throat locked, and I coughed a little before answering.

"It can't hurt. Cocoa butter _is_ good for the skin."

He grinned at me. "So, Hutch, you gonna butter me up?"

"Baste you like a turkey." I grinned back at him, hoping I didn't look and sound as guilty as I felt. Every word Sweet Alice had said that afternoon was replaying in my head like a broken record. As much as I ached to touch him, I knew I would be trespassing on our friendship, even if it was only in the silence of my own heart. The one thing that kept me from refusing was that Starsky so seldom actually asked for anything. From the very day he regained consciousness, he had accepted the pain and the inconveniences and the indignities with a stoic grace I found humbling. He would have been perfectly entitled to whine and complain and rail against the unfairness of life; instead, he drew on every drop of stubborn independence and courage he had, over and over.

So far, the well hadn't run dry, and I was determined that if there was anything I could do that would help, it never would.

"Oh, man, that does feel good," Starsky sighed a few minutes later. He was sprawled on his back, as I carefully worked the ointment around the scars on his chest. "It feels—kinda warm, almost. And not so tight anymore." He patted my arm. "You got good hands, blondie."

I couldn't answer. I hoped my hands weren't shaking as badly as the rest of me.

I was about to tell him to turn over, when I heard a soft snore. With a grin, I carefully eased the sheet and blankets up over him, making sure to tuck him in. He'd felt warmer that day, which made me hope the  
chills had just been from exhaustion, but I still had an extra blanket down for his feet, just in case.

I wiped my hands on the washcloth I'd brought over, and just stood looking down at him for a minute. Thin, and drawn and still much too pale: unless we were very lucky, it would be a long time before Starsky would be back to the bouncy bundle of energy he'd been before the shooting. But he was alive, and close, and everything I loved in the world.

I leaned down, and very gently kissed his forehead, and then his hair.

And then I bolted.

*****

On the eleventh day after I brought Starsky home from the hospital, Babcock and Simmons dropped in with three barbequed chickens.

Also coleslaw, potato salad, macaroni salad, rolls, and a vat of extra barbeque sauce.

"Three chickens?" I said, looking at the feast spread out on the kitchen table. "You know something about the food supply we don't?"

"They were on sale," Babcock said sheepishly. "And you guys always eat about one apiece—" he broke off as Simmons kicked his ankle, then turned red. "Shit, I'm sorry, Starsky."

"Hey, they'll keep, right? Or Hutch can put some in the freezer."

"Chicken and noodles," I played along. "Chicken sandwiches. Chicken hash. Chicken a la king."

"Not chicken a la king!" Starsky moaned. "Anything but that."

"Ha, ha. I'll have you know my chicken a la king is appreciated in the best circles."

"Yeah. The ones the cats make around the dumpster."

We dished up the chicken—Starsky even got the plates down, and I had to hold onto the edge of the table with both hands to keep from going over and stopping him— and joked around, and between the four of us put a pretty good dent into the food, even though Starsky only took a drumstick and a little of the macaroni salad. It felt like the old days, when the four of us, and some of the other guys around the squad would get together for barbeques or ball games or beach parties.

Babcock and Simmons had spent enough visiting time in the hospital that they weren't surprised or upset by the way Starsky looked, or moved. They both casually passed over food and served him without making a big deal of it, and Simmons poured him a glass of milk from the fridge without even asking.

When there wasn't much left but one lonely half chicken — "No chicken a la king, Hutch. I mean it!" — and we'd caught up all the latest departmental gossip, Babcock got up and went over to the living room window.

"You know," he said, "my wife's cousin's wife is in real estate. I bet she could find you guys something a little bigger that you could still afford. Maybe not such a nice part of town, but you'd have the room."

"You sound like Huggy," Starsky said. "And on disability about all I could afford is a bigger doghouse."

"Yeah, but you won't be on disability forever," Simmons said. He too was wandering around the living room. "And there really isn't any room to expand here. Unless Hutch holds a plant sale, you two are gonna be squashed in tighter than anchovies in the can."

"Yeah, and take some advice from an old married guy. There _is_ such a thing as too much togetherness. You may not believe it now, but there'll be times when you'll be grateful for some extra room so you can getaway from each other for a while."

"Can I quote you on that next time I see Jackie?" Simmons laughed.

"Asshole," Babcock muttered, but he was laughing too.

Starsky was glancing from one to the other, puzzled.

"Hey, Hutch is gonna go home sometime, y'know. I mean, Jesus, if I need him around permanent—" He stopped, a sick look on his face.

I had been so stunned by the casual way they had been discussing the two of us living together permanently I hadn't been able to think of a word to get in edgewise. But seeing Starsky's face, I couldn't stop my reaction. I pulled him into a hug, feeling him tremble and grip onto my shoulders.

"It's not permanent, you know that. The doctors all said you'll get better. It's just a matter of being patient and taking care of yourself." Over his shoulder, I saw Babcock and Simmons look at each other, and nod once.

Starsky was restless the rest of the day. He kept getting up and walking between the kitchen and living room, looking out the same window Babcock had. It wasn't until he was in bed, and I was rubbing some more of the cocoa butter into him, that he spoke up.

"Hutch? What if it doesn't get better?" His eyes were closed, and he looked braced for a blow.

"Starsk, the doctors—"

"Nobody can make promises, you know that," he said impatiently. "I shouldn't have even made it as far as the hospital. Every day is a gift, and I'm not sayin' I'm ungrateful. But what do I do—"

"Then I guess we'll be talking to Babcock's wife's cousin's whatever and looking for a bigger place." I'm not sure I could have said it looking into his eyes,but hearing that vulnerability he'd never have let me see, all I could tell him was the truth.

"Me and Thee? Oh, babe, this isn't what you signed on for," he sighed.

"All the way, all the time, anything you need," I told him firmly. "Maybe this isn't what we signed on for, but this is what we get, so this is how we play it."

He reached up and squeezed my hand where it lay on his chest. A few seconds later he was asleep.

I sat, letting him hold my hand until he shifted and it dropped out of his grip. Then I kissed him, and headed for the couch.

*****

On the fourteenth day after I brought Starsky home from the hospital, Kathy Marshall and three of her stewardess friends stopped in on the way from the airport. I couldn't be sure, but I was pretty sure I'd dated a couple of them, and I thought Starsky had dated all of them at one time or the other. They were all cute and perky in their uniforms, like a little flock of bright songbirds, and they all cooed over Starsky and made a big fuss over him.

I could tell Starsky wasn't comfortable. He hadn't slept well the night before, and had irritably refused to take either a sleeping pill or a pain pill both times I'd gotten up. He was trying to be good company, and he might have fooled the other girls, but Kathy knew us both well enough to read him properly. It didn't take long for her to round up the others and get everybody shooed out.

As they were leaving, Kathy pulled me aside.

"You're sure about this, Hutch? I mean it's not just because he's hurt or you feel guilty or something?"

My heart sank. "What do you mean? Of course I'm staying here because he's hurt. I couldn't let them put him in the rehab center, or leave him here by himself."

"Oh, well, if that's the way you're going to play it," she said with a little pout. "Still, such a shame. Two handsomest guys in Bay City, off the market."

"Kathy, please don't—"

"Oh, don't worry. I won't say anything. And if you ever need a 'date'" she made quotation marks in the air "for show, just call me up. You two are fun to go out dancing with no matter what, and I know a couple of the other girls who'd like to just be able to go out for a good time and not have to worry about Roman hands and Russian fingers."

She gave me a peck on the cheek, waved to Starsky, and the whole flock went fluttering and chirping down the stairs.

Starsky had slumped down on the couch, with a bemused look on his face.

"Hutch," he said, "Kaye thinks we're living together."

I gestured around at my duffle bag on the bedroom floor, my guitar case in the corner, a pile of my books on the edge of the coffee table.

"Gee, what do you think gave her that idea?"

"No, I mean _living_ together. You know, you and me." He gave me a strange look. "You know what's really weird? She thinks it's _cute_. She approves."

I took a deep breath. After the conversation we'd had last night, I had been feeling a bit more sure of myself, but now, I knew I had been letting my hopes and dreams get in the way of reality.

"Do you want me to go back home? We could get a home care visitor, maybe find somebody who could stay over nights, just until you're stronger."

For a second he looked stricken, and then shook it off. Watching him struggle to put on his street cop persona nearly broke my heart.

"Hey, if it bothers you, sure. I don't need a baby sitter." His eyes wouldn't meet mine, and I could see the sudden death grip he had on the arm of the couch.

I knelt in front of him, and pried loose the hand trying to strangle the cushion.

"Look at me. I meant what I said. All the way, all the time, anything. If that's me staying here and looking after you, you got it. But if you're worried about what people might say, if you think it'll—"

He put his other hand over my mouth.

"Don't be dumb, Hutch. I _died_. Maybe there wasn't any light tunnel and fancy spirits, but I was fuckin' _gone_. You think I give a shit about anybody's opinion but yours? If you can live with it, that's all I care about."

I couldn't help it. I took his hand away from my mouth, turned it over, and kissed the knuckles. There were still a couple of faint marks where the IV lines had been, and I kissed those too.

Starsky put his hand on my head, and we just sat there, me holding his hand against my cheek, and him playing a little with my hair.

There's times when you can feel things change, when there's an earthquake or a lightening storm, when the tectonic plates or the electricity in the air are all in driving, restless motion. This was nothing that fast and flashy. Not a Torino moment. It was more like the fundamental particles of the universe very slowly but surely all coming around to a different alignment. Nothing earth shattering, but nothing ever again the same either.

When I looked up-however long afterward it was-Starsky was smiling down at me, eyes filled with a gentle laughter.

"So, my good night kiss going to be a little lower down tonight?"

"You knew?"

"You thought I didn't?"

Fundamental realignment in the universe or not, I still couldn't help feeling guilty. "I'm sorry. I took advantage-"

Starsky laughed out loud, and then grabbed his ribs. "Ow, shit!"

I was on the couch instantly, an arm around him.

"Breathe easy, there, nice and easy." I rubbed his chest gently, rocking him slightly.

After a minute, his breathing eased up, and he leaned against me. One hand went back to playing with my hair.

"You really are a natural blond," he said. "Took advantage? You think on the worst day I ever had I couldn't kick you in the balls if I thought I needed to?"

"I just want to make sure you're okay with this."

"Hutch, we already _had_ this conversation."

"No, the conversation we had was about if you were okay with me staying here even if people were gossiping about us. _This_ conversation is about me staying here when you know I can't keep my hands off you. I don't _want_ to keep my hands off you."

"Good." He nodded emphatically. "You don't feel sorry for me, and I don't feel dependent about you and we don't feel guilty about each other. Right?" Suddenly he looked uncertain. "It's real, right? You're gonna be mine, Hutch? And I'm gonna be yours? No more bullshit?"

I swallowed hard.

"Like I said. Anything, any time, any way. All the time, all the way." I swallowed again. "I love you."

Another emphatic nod. "That's it, then. Now how about that good night kiss?"

"It's two o'clock in the afternoon, Starsky," I said, trying to keep a straight face. "Besides, don't you have something you want to tell me?"

He looked at me for a second in puzzlement, then started to laugh again, though a lot more quietly.

"Natural blond," he said, and grabbed me by the ears and kissed me.

****

On the fifteenth day after I brorught Starsky home, I woke up in his bed, wrapped around him in a coccoon of tangled covers.

We'd figured out sometime in the evening that the only way we could manage to lie down together was if we were both on our sides, and I was behind him. He couldn't support anything but his own weight yet, and his arm would cramp if it had to stay in a raised position too long. But we could manage a nice spoon, and with his weight resting against me it took the strain off the muscles.

Feeling him warm and content in my arms like that was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Until he turned his head slightly, and looked up at me with sleepy, loving blue eyes, and a little smile of pure happiness. _That_ was the best moment, absolutely.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

I nodded, throat tight.

"Love you back." Words I never thought I'd be able to say, never have the right to say.

"Does that mean I get good morning kisses now, too?" The impish grin I hadn't seen much of lately was on in full force.

"Morning, noon, and night."

"Afternoon tea, midnight snack, brunch-"

I finally had a good way to shut Starsky up. And I took it.


End file.
